COLD FLESH
by JForward
Summary: Dragon!Lock series. Sherlock's learning the problems that come with his transformations and Mycroft is on the warpath. No slash. Please give it a chance. Reviews, I need them to live.
1. Chapter 1

COLD FLESH - Chapter One

_MOAR DRAGON! Yay okay hi guys. Yep, a new one already, I know I know. This one is going to be a little rougher, a little more character-building than plot. Enjoy._

"Anderson, _get your hands off that corpse before you ruin everything!_" John rolled his eyes as Sherlock's snap caused the man to step back from the corpse, glaring at the consulting detective with rage in his eyes. Thankfully, very human eyes. John had been on tenterhooks since that fight with the leader of the scientific group that had caused Sherlock's… condition. Lestrade knew what Sherlock was, if not truly, but to a degree; he had an anger management condition from the drugs was probably the length that he understood. It was as if he'd blocked out what he'd seen, a half-shifted Sherlock pinning a dragon, slicing him open with deadly hooked claws.

The man wasn't in jail. In fact, after being rushed out of sight, the then-human shape shifter had disappeared to America, deported, apparently… and somehow he had ended up in the chair. Even a dragon couldn't survive that. Especially not after a secret beheading followed, before he was buried. Everyone who had been tested was dead, apparently; Sherlock had easily picked apart the group, and told John that all of them had died, by the group that set them up. John believed it, of course. The problem was that, since that fight, Sherlock's emotional state seemed inherently linked with transformation; usually it wouldn't go further than his eyes and canines, but more than once John had had to comfort a frustrated dragon. In a completely platonic way, of course.

Sherlock's always-working brain had devoted several caseless days to working out how to transform at will, and the conditioning had worked; he'd used it to scare a couple of criminals into confessing, but he hated having to do that. It was also quickly discovered that, once changed, it was very tricky for him to turn back without sleeping or totally relaxing himself. He could almost speak in dragon form, as well, although it was a challenge for him, and he preferred not to.

"Lestrade, when did you say she was found?" John clicked his mind back into the present, with the human Sherlock crouching next to the corpse, carefully not touching it. Sticky dried blood coated the floor; it was a sickening murder. She was naked, left lying on her front, eyes open and without peace. There were dozens of criss-crossed marks on her back, like she was swiped with claws. "Last night. They don't know how long she's been like this." the flat was an empty one, unused for weeks.

"She was kidnapped, but the parents don't know." she was only fourteen. "Probably told them she was going to a sleepover. They would be collecting her this evening, only…" he gestured at the corpse. "This was a fetishist. Those markings; they were wearing hand made Wolverine claws." John blinked at Sherlock in surprise.

"Wolverine. As in-"

"As in X-men, yes. She's a fan. Probably was meeting up with someone else who said they were also a fan, only not in the way she expected. Got her drunk so she'd pass out, raped her, then decided to have a little fun. The shock killed her." he straightened up and frowned. "Check her emails. Track the IP. You'll find him. He'll come willingly. Come on, John!" he pulled off his gloves and walked away. John was left to follow after him, shooting an apologetic glance at people as he was whirled out of the room.

Back in a taxi, John could see that Sherlock was very twitchy. "How do you know he'll come willingly?"

"He didn't want to kill her. He's ashamed. No care's been taken over her body, it's obvious." rolling his eyes, Sherlock fiddled with a bit of string he'd produced from somewhere, turning it over in his fingertips. Even when in dire need of a cigarette, John had never known him to be so fidgety until recently.

The cab pulled up and Sherlock stepped outside, tilting his head up, staring at the grey skies. It wasn't raining but the wind was harsh, whipping his hair and coat around; John paid and as they went in, Sherlock was undoing his coat, and then his shirt. Ever since the first transformation, Sherlock had become a little more… wild was the only way John could phrase it. They'd agreed with Mrs Hudson that the roof door should remain unlocked, because of cases, and she'd agreed, a little bemused. "Just be back soon, alright?" he sighed, as Sherlock finished undoing his silk shirt and offered him a grin, hanging up his coat and scarf.

Then he was gone up the stairs and John sat in the chair for a minute, listening to the noise, before going to make himself a cuppa.

P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K*

Sherlock was pulling off his shirt as he reached the roof, opening the door. The wind was stronger up here but he was already transforming, unable to hold back any longer. As his skin cracked into scales and bones began shifting around, he ignored the pain, kicking off the rest of his clothing, folding it neatly and tucking it inside the doorway. Then he dropped to all fours, wings and tail unfurling from his body with many cracks and pops. His vision became more blue, ultraviolet visible to him, and he moved to the edge of the flat, gripping the border with sharp talons. He had to swallow down a roar, because it would not do good for him to be seen.

Sherlock waited for the right moment, then in a move he leapt, wings spreading wide. He was glittering even in this half-light, a sleek red body with faded patches of gold, the webbing of his wings gold as well. As he pounded the air out of the way, rocketing up, up and through the cloud cover, into glorious sunlight, where he did let out a roar. Dew beaded along the tips of his wings, as he breathed each deep breath; claws flexed and relaxed. Up here he could still smell London, but it felt like he had travelled an impossible distance; all his senses keen and sharp. He skimmed down, feeling the feathery clouds dispel as his wings sent them into swirling eddies. Then he folded them, feeling from the way the heat changed that he'd cleared London already and was over country.

His senses were correct. When he shot through the cloud cover like an arrow, he was above hills and trees, rocketing toward lush grass and a lake. He twitched the tips, flaring them, perfectly controlling the descent, a clear film over his eyes to protect them from the wind. Then he spread his wings half-open, twisting his body. His back claws and tail sent up a splash of water before _beat - beat - beat _and he was shooting into the sky again, mouth open to pant, body tingling and aching and heart pounding.

He circled once more before climbing through the clouds again, trusting his internal mechanism to guide him back to the flat. The closer he got, though, even above these clouds, the wind was blowing hard now, and it was taking more and more power to keep himself on track. He let out a growl of frustration, pounding his wings down, the aches now seeming troublesome rather than pleasurable. A particularly hard gust of wind sent him turning, and he now realised the lack of birds in the sky was a powerful sign he should've noticed. Cursing his rare lack of foresight, he dipped below the cloud cover, riskily, but knowing he had to get home. He was over London, now, on the outskirts; so he forced himself along, trying to keep speed.

His wingtips were shaking from fatigue. A hot gust came from below and suddenly he was climbing through clouds that seemed rather too solid compared to earlier. Flailing in the air, Sherlock lost his cool, starting to panic, spreading his wings as wide as they would go - just in time to be smashed into by a wave of air, throwing him backwards, tumbling like a skittle, losing track of anything except for the feeling of nausea and the never-ending swirling sky before - _crunch._

P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K*

An hour had passed. Then an hour and a half. John gave up on his newspaper and stared out the window, listening to the wind rattling around it, before deciding to go see if there was any sign of it. To the roof door - the neat pile of clothes and shoes, all in place, the spots of blood from the shift on the ground - he really had to wash those off - but no Sherlock. The wind up here was furious and John squinted into it, scanning the skies, but seeing no sign. Worry flared but he squashed it; probably Sherlock had landed somewhere, nicked some clothes and was currently on his way back. Hopefully. Determined not to panic, John returned to the flat, where he spent almost an hour pacing anyway.

_Reviews are my blood, I need them or I'll die ;)_


	2. Chapter 2

COLD FLESH - Chapter Two

_Hi guys, hope you're enjoying so far. I am not great at tension._

He must've fallen asleep on the sofa; the television was on, static screaming into his ears. He twisted, flexed, trying to break out from the quilt that had tangled on him, but finding he couldn't move. Eyes snapped open, and he began aware of glowing things, close-up. Flowers. Grass poking into his nostrils, pain in every part of his body, and the static - people. Screaming people. Sherlock tried to jerk his head up but something was digging into his back, heavy, pinning him down. He growled, whined, thrashed; twisting his head to stare at what the hell was happening.

Thick elasticated ropes were over his neck, back, and tail; the very tip of which was twitching out of his control. There were sacks of sand on the end of them, hiding pins in the ground, and he wasn't strong enough to free himself. Thrashing, fear pulsed through him, trying to spread his pinned wings. There must've been twenty people surrounding him, staring in terror, and he could hear cars approaching, armoured vans. _No, no! No! JOHN! _he shouted it mentally, but he couldn't speak, not now, not here… rain was splashing onto his body, but he couldn't feel the cold, barely feeling the sensation.

He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. Both his wings were throbbing violently, so he'd pulled at least one muscle; he jerked his head again, trying to lift it, snorting with exertion. His ears folded down against his neck, the dark feathers on the top of his head flagging up and down with agitation. Letting out a savage roar, the people surrounding him took a step back, and then the vans were tearing onto the field, government vans, scientists, vets… his eyes were wide as he fought, feeling a little give, some pins pulled, sandbags moving. Claws dug into the mud but he couldn't push hard enough, and suddenly there were people around him, staring in shock.

They didn't stay astonished for long. Training kicked in, and three bulky men were on his head, pinning him down as his tail thrashed. Then a scared looking vet appeared with a huge needle, thick and sharp, shaking as he measured out a huge dose of knockout drug. Detomidine HCI - elephant knockout drug. Unable to help himself, he let out a low cry that was undoubtedly a _"__No!__"_before it was carefully slid into the patch of soft flesh on his neck, and the plunger pushed. Within five minutes he collapsed sideways, tears trickling into the pits on his face.

** P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K***

John was more than worried. He'd rung Lestrade, St. Bart's, asked Mrs. Hudson, and, as a last resort, phoned Mycroft. Not a one of them had seen Sherlock yesterday. Mycroft had offered to 'assist' in finding him, but John had declined, promising to get back with information. He had gone to bed the night before, and now it was dawn, the storm had faded; no sign of Sherlock. His clothes were still folded in that neat pile. Terrified, John pulled on his jacket, leaving a note for if Sherlock came back while he was away, then he headed out into the street, bracing himself to check anywhere Sherlock might have ended up.

***P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K***

Sherlock's mind was a swirl of colours, emotions and senses, none of which would latch on to anything. The drug was burning through his system, and he carefully flexed each one of his toes individually, feeling them respond, the quiet scratching of the thick black claws against something metal. Still transformed; his wings were bound, he could feel ,wrapped tight around him; but he didn't seem otherwise much injured, apart from strain. Slowly, slowly, he eased open his eyes, squinting as everything came into focus into bright lights. There were people moving around, scientists, a few stood staring at him in wonder, talking but his fuzzy mind still too slow to work out the words.

His vision seemed blurry. In a move he went to stand and walk forward, shake out the cramp in his bones, but his head struck something hard and cold. Recoiling with a whine, he reached out a paw and felt. Of course. _Perspex. _Then he tilted his head up and around. Three sides were Perspex, but one pushed up against a wall; the back was metal, and so was the framework. Whatever this was, it was used to holding large specimens, maybe lions or some such; but right now it felt cramped as his tail was bunched into a wall. He growled as the crowd grew larger now he'd stirred, brain carefully clicking together all the parts of it.

_The storm._

_ The crash._

_ The people._

His eyes widened and he let out a strange choking noise. _Oh my god, I'm in a laboratory._

_REVIIIIEW I NEED IT TO LIIIIVE/_


	3. Chapter 3

COLD HEART - Chapter Three

He'd checked anywhere and everywhere that Sherlock might be. First had been new Scotland Yard; Lestrade had been confused and annoyed, asking John why he was there again, and then a little worried when he heard about the missing Sherlock. Wandering the streets, he'd asked at the corner shops, even found one of the drug dealers - none of them had seen Sherlock for a while, definitely not yesterday. The air felt cold and he was huffing a little; he went on a last, desperate errand, the Diogenes club - but no sign of him. Then he found his way to Mycroft's office, heaving a nervous sigh of relief when the door was opened and he was gestured inside.

"You haven't found him, I trust?" he asked, and John could detect the flicker of worry through his cold façade. Shaking his head, he sunk into a chair, staring at a pile of paperwork behind Mycroft, on the desk. The brother moved across the room, sitting down in a chair almost opposite John. "It's not unusual for him to disappear, however, I'm surprised at it now, considering the … circumstances." he examined his fingernails a moment and John felt like grinding his teeth in fury. The man was the _British government. _It would not be hard to organise a silent search, but no… he glanced up as Mycroft stood again, apparently deep in thought, and picked up a few sheets of paper off his desk.

"I've just received a fascinating report, John." he commented, as if talking about the weather. He looked up, that faint smile that John found so irritated just dancing around on his face. "It's from a small group of scientists in a laboratory near Croydon, of all places." John's insides felt like they'd turned to a heavy block of ice at the term 'scientist', but he kept his impassive face on, from his army times he found it easy to regulate expressions. "They are claiming to have found a _dragon._" his voice reflected amusement and something John just couldn't place a finger on, but right now he was more focused on the chunk of ice now floating around his ankles. _No no no no…_

"I ordered images, of course. They should be coming through any moment-" his phone beeped and he slid it out. "now."

***P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K***

He considered throwing himself against the plastic, but from the thickness he could see, he imagined he'd have more luck trying to carve his way out of it. Sliding the nails of a paw gently down it, not even a curl of plastic came away. So, no-go. Sherlock turned in a stiff circle, like a cat, laying down, twisting his head inward to resume gnawing on the rope around his wings that felt like a bungee cord, it was so rubbery. His deadly sharp teeth were making a frustratingly small amount of progress against the cord, but it was helping him think, as well as stay conscious. At least one thing had pleased John; since he'd been transforming, food had been a much bigger necessity, as flying burned up energy like fire and left him needing sustenance. Right now his stomach felt like it was writhing in hunger, his tongue curling from desperation for a drink.

He must've been there all the night, unconscious, but eternally grateful that he hadn't transformed back, as he did in death and sleep. Maybe the trauma, or the drug, or - irrelevant. He filed that away for later, focusing on the important things. He mustn't sleep, no matter what, because being discovered would be bad in an unending number of ways, and also because he wasn't sure quite how well he'd cope with changing back in his current state.

Then he realised that there was a shape approaching him, holding a metal bowl that was filled with water, incautiously, as if thinking he was asleep. So he stilled himself, and waited…

** *P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K***

"Interesting." John's heart was hammering violently in his throat. "They knocked it out with an elephant tranquiliser… would you like a look?" John held out a hand he hoped wasn't shaking to take the iPhone, and flicked through the photos, swallowing and nervously licking his lips. It was undoubtedly Sherlock, although taken on a blurry camera; that red-and-gold body, eyes closed, hands… paws? Clenched and face screwed up in the unconsciousness. He handed it back. "It looks very real." he noted, cursing the shake in his voice, and Mycroft smirked. He typed a quick message and then pocketed the phone. "They'll bring it in to London tomorrow morning. I've informed them to keep it alive. We need to study it before we dissect it, of course. Well, John-" Mycroft didn't seem to notice the stricken look on John's face, eyes wide and pupils tiny. "-I'll keep an eye out for my brother, in the meantime, take care." he waited until John had left, zombie-like, then pulled out his phone again and sent off another text.

_Put it in Sherlock's room. - MH_


	4. Chapter 4

COLD HEART - Chapter Four

_Please forgive any spelling errors, I__'__ve had a ten hour day at university._

_ Also reviiiiews._

She unlatched the door, he heard the clunking of the mechanism with his eyes almost shut, head curled inward, then the Pyrex was opened with a heart tug. There was a soft clatter of the metal bowl being placed, and he swung his head round, suddenly eye to eye with the girl, trying something that he hadn't tried before; reverting his eyes to human. He felt a twinge and his vision diminished a bit, before snapping back to normal as he felt a wave of pride at his success. He leapt to his feet, aiming to dash past her, but she let out a cry as she fell back and kicked the door shut.

It hit him in the noise and he recoiled as tears sprung to his eyes from the pain - he had soft flesh around his nostrils, mouth and eyes - and shook his head, but before he could push open the door, three or four more were there, sealing it shut, locking it, and he let out a howl of anger, pacing side to side before giving up and dunking his head into the water, letting it run over, finding he could automatically seal his nostrils - he filed that away into his memory banks, for it might mean a swimming ability - and when his face felt cooler lifted it out, shaking to get droplets out of his eyes, before drinking. He drank purse-lipped, like a human might, tilting his head back to swallow and then staring out at the scientists, who were watching in amazement, some comforting the woman.

_Elizabeth_, her tag had read. He'd registered but not absorbed it. When he perked his little ears he could hear them calling her Lizzie. She'd seen his eyes. He had to work at her… she could be his opportunity. He didn't even notice the approach of men holding a metal tube.

***P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K***

John exited the club feeling as if he'd run a marathon. His heart was still pounding in terror and he had no idea what the hell to do. He signalled a taxi, automatically; it wasn't right for Mycroft to be that lax about his brother, surely? But on the flip side, it was how Mycroft acted, after all, always … aloof. John let out a snort as he sunk into the taxi seat, putting his hands to his face, rubbing his eyes. This was… unbelievably not good. How in the hell was he meant to rescue his best friend? Especially if he was a dragon. As far as he knew, Sherlock turned back when asleep - when unconscious? So … an elephant tranquiliser. Maybe he was stuck, in that form, trapped… but then, maybe it was another dragon. Mycroft probably knew where Sherlock was, and was enjoying stringing John along…

And so his mind swirled in endless circles.

***P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K***

He'd thought the small circular tube set into the roof of the cage was just for air, but he was wrong. Sherlock snarled, thrashing around, trying to tear the tube by shoving claws into the gap, but all he did was knock his bowl over and make the floor slippery. The gas hissed into the cage, filling it up, burning down through his nose and mouth, stinging his lungs, eyes watering as he roared and yowled and thrashed, anything to make them stop it. Dizziness came in expected waves, but he wouldn't stop moving, their shouts making no sense as the cage was filled with more and more of the potent mixture. Finally he staggered over sideways and collapsed, laying on his side, heaving in desperate breaths, feeling like he was choking and then - the pipe was removed and a fan came into play, sucking it away.

It was too late. He could see atomic yellow on the air he let out, digging his claws into the Pyrex in a last-ditch attempt to cling to consciousness, but as hands came in and began dragging him out, causing him to panic again, all he could do was flex his claws and twist his tailtip. He tried to growl in anger but nothing came out. Fear was thundering through him - he could still _feel _everything. As his eyes slid shut and he tumbled into the darkness, he was screaming inside his head. Every sensation thundered through him and Sherlock was left alone with his hyperactive brain, terrified of the memories he had no control over.

***P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K***

John entered the flat feeling crushed. Mrs Hudson appeared, and took in his look, hurrying ahead to get into the flat and make him a cup of tea. "Don't worry." she told him, "He'll be alright. He can take care of himself." John flopped into his chair, then sat forward, rubbing his face. A few minutes later she sat opposite, offering the hot drink, with a faint smile. "I'm not your housekeeper, remember." she reminded him, and he laughed quietly as he held the scorching mug. She leant forward and surprised him by putting a hand on his knee. "I'm glad he's got you to take care of him." she said, and he smiled weakly at the genuine tenderness in her voice.


	5. Chapter 5

COLD FLESH - Chapter Five

Sherlock came to, slowly; his head was foggy and when he tried to lift it, he flopped sideways. Paddling his feet to try to get up, he found that he was tied, or rather… his ears picked up the jangle of metal. Handcuffed on both pairs of feet, apparently, which was… strange. His head spun and he opened his eyes a slip, slamming them shut again and grinding his teeth at the pain of what he was seeing. He felt exhausted, the forced sleep he'd been in horrifying, going through thousands of ideas and situations and … a brain that never slept. Slowly, slowly, he opened his eyes again, seeing a huge glow. Then it clicked was he was staring at; walls, painted white, covered in images, drawings - his head snapped up properly this time and he thought his jaw would've dropped.

What in the name of all hell was he doing here? Unable to sit up properly he laid paws forward, back swung to the side, like a lion. Carefully, slowly, he rotated his head, absorbing everything he could see. White walls, images - drawings and sketches, scientific equations, anything and everything, but nothing fantasy; life sketches. A desk covered in burns and scorch marks, mimicked with splashes and spots on the wall behind it, and an uncomfortable but expensive looking wooden carved chair.

He was laying on a dark blue rug, thick, on top of a cream coloured carpet, matched with stains around the desk, mainly to the sides. A king-sized bed was tucked into the corner, very expensive carved oak, looking handsome with dark blue covers on it and a blanket matching. Above it was a shelf covered in science books, criminal books, and tatty locked diaries. He was almost shaking now as he stared at those items, everything so familiar, before turning his head and seeing what he knew would be there; a photo, showing an older woman, an oldish man, and two teenage boys, the younger of who sported a bruise badly covered by makeup. The door creaked and Sherlock whipped his head around, staring at the figure in the doorway.

***P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K***

John was sitting staring at his laptop screen, the blog, open ready to write a post, but as his fingers hovered over the keyboard, no words came to mind. No case; he wasn't willing to write about Sherlock's disappeared status with Moriarty still around. He even considered texting Irene, but what point would it be? Sherlock's phone was sat on the table, looking lonely and low on power, the clothes left hopefully up in the doorway on the roof. Mrs Hudson had left after he assured her he was okay, even if he wasn't; but what else could he do?

_Beep._

He checked his phone, half-heartedly, and then scowled at the message.

_Car outside. Hurry up. - MH_

John sighed and snapped the laptop shut, slipping it away and walking out to the car, not even looking at Anthea as he slammed the door closed, not sure whether to be angry - or scared as hell.

***P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K***

Sherlock's exclamation came out as a growl - only John could've deciphered it as a _'__Mycroft!__'_. His brother stared at him, as if disgusted, arms held stiffly at his side. The dragon bared it's teeth, trying to stand and losing his balance, finding the hard way that his wings were still bound with that thick cord. Of course, of course, he had to find out, why else would he be here, at … home. _Home. _The thought of it sickened him. Baker Street was his home, not here, this travesty of inheritance and … he shook off the thoughts as he snarled at Mycroft, baring the long canines.

"Careful now, brother." Mycroft looked amused, arms looking strange without an umbrella to twirl. "Don't be dangerous, I don't want to have you… put down." that face, that smirk. Sherlock was, for once, lost. He couldn't tell if that was hate or love in that expression; it made his scales feel tight and uncomfortable. He swallowed and thrashed his tail, smashing it into the oak bedside cabinet and the wall. "Now, now." Mycroft repeatedly. "Don't make me tie you up properly, Sherlock." he scowled at the dragon, pulling out a tiny key. He turned it, inspecting it, "This will unlock your feet. But you know there's another way." he tucked it into his breast pocket, smirking.

"Just turn back. I'd like to be able to talk to you." Mr. Last Word left the room, letting the door behind him slam shut, ignoring the roar of rage that pursued him.

***P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K***

John stepped out of the car, looking up at the beautiful mansion that he had never seen before. This was eternally bad, especially as he could see Mycroft stood at the top of the stone stairs, an umbrella in one hand. He walked down the steps with that stiff grace as the car drove smoothly away behind John, barely disturbing the beautiful gravel. "Let's take a walk." Mycroft pretended it was a suggestion, but John could hear the order in it, waiting for Mycroft to reach him before turning in step. The silence felt uncomfortable, but the elder Holmes strode along as if he was completely relaxed. Hell, maybe he was; power brings cockiness.

The way was led around the corner and through a beautiful wrought-iron gate; but John had noticed the guards that kept up a steady distance. "Paranoid?" he commented, and Mycroft just smirked back.

"Sometimes, certain precautions are necessary, John." he informed the ex-soldier, who scowled and glared at the hibernating winter trees, as if those bare branches were to blame.

"Cut the crap, Mycroft. Do you know where Sherlock is?"

"Of course I do. He's in his bedroom."

John stopped dead, and Mycroft took a step, as if unaware that John had stopped, before turning his head slightly. "Do keep up now, John." he commented, completely calm, ignoring the expression of shock as John looked up at the side of the mansion.

"This is your … parents house?" he questioned, eyes wide.

"Was, John. It's my personal house, now; mummy lives in a smaller cottage, with staff."

"Your father?" John spoke faintly, asking automatically, wondering about the richness of this family, Sherlock's habit of suits…

"He passed away shortly before I joined the government." John looked back at Mycroft; there was a sharp, don't-mention-it edge to his voice, and John did not want to piss of the British Government… any more.

"You said he was in his bedroom?" he caught up with Mycroft again, and they continued moving around the hibernating winter garden. He wondered why Mycroft wanted to be out here, in the cold air; at least the days were getting longer again. "Was he drugged up somewhere?" he couldn't hide anger in his voice; he'd found Sherlock in that state before, but if Mycroft had been serious about the scientists…

"He won't talk to me." Mycroft informed, doing a good impersonation of the caring brother. "I imagine he can, but it would be difficult, in the current situation. I would've hoped he would be acting more mature by the time you got here, but…" he smiled, wryly, "Some things are just wishful thinking." John shot him a glare, shoving his hands deeper into his pocket as he strode along. "Well, maybe he'll be willing to speak to you, Dr. Watson." Mycroft did a smart heel-turn to look at John, who stopped moving as well, facing the other man. "Or he may bite your head off. Come along." and with a self-indulgent smile, Mycroft turned and strode off at a smart clip, leaving John frustratedly following in his wake.

_Please please please reviiiiew._


	6. Chapter 6

COLD HEART - Chapter Six

He rather wished he had the ability to breathe fire - a little tidbit of mythology he'd filed away, seeing as mostly he had little interest in fantasy - as he could cope with burnt hands to get out of these chains. He'd thrashed a few times but to little avail, and so settled to think what to do. He didn't want to change back; conversing with his brother, confirming what he knew. His scaled sides ached from the constant pressure of the bungee cord; all this confinement meant he just wanted to fly, fly like all hell away from here. He let out a small snarl of anger, tucking his nose down to his stomach, biting at the cord. Sherlock knew that there was only way out of this, but he didn't have a chance, unless he could relax…

Then he heard footsteps approaching, and lowered his head, narrowing his eyes at the door as he raised his lip, automatically displaying those canines. The door opened, and behind it - he lost his angry expression as John took in the sight and immediately was by his side, checking him. "Why do you have him trussed up like a chicken?" he yelled at Mycroft, who looked slightly taken aback.

"I couldn't have him smashing up his bedroom, now could I?"

John shot Mycroft a look of rage, leaping up and staring at him. "Give me the goddamned key."

Mycroft smirked but passed the tiny silver key to John, who immediately crouched down and unlocked Sherlock's feet, back then first.

He flexed out, slowly, enjoying the feeling of relaxation as he regained movement. John quickly found the metal loop that was padlocked in the middle of Sherlock's back; there were lots of tiny scratches from the metal edges on the skin of his wings, and marring the scales. Carefully, he unlocked the cord, unbinding it. Sherlock got up to shaky feet as John unwrapped all the cord, letting it land on the floor. Then John turned, and faced Mycroft, fury in every line, no sign of his shake or limp. "You idiot. He can't turn back when he's stressed, or in pain. Do you have any idea what you've been _doing _to him? He's your BROTHER!" John was shouting now, and Mycroft still looked calm, only raising an eyebrow.

If anything, John felt angrier at that.

Of course, now Sherlock was free, he was able to back up John's statement with a loud roar, which caused Mycroft to take an instinctive half-step back and go white. Smirking, John stepped forward again, gripping the door. "Now, _I__'__ll _call _you _when he's willing to talk." and with that, he slammed the door shut in Mycroft's face, before turning and crouching in front of Sherlock, hugging his neck tight. He squirmed, apparently shocked; "You idiot." he hissed, ever-so-softly, "You goddamned idiot, I could wring your bloody neck…" Sherlock let out a strange chuffing noise, that John realised was laughter as he let go and stepped back.

Then he laid on his side, letting out a great gusty sigh, almost impatient. John moved away, to give him some privacy, as he inspected the hundreds of tiny and large sketches. "Some of these are good." he commented, awkwardly; then there came the first gristly crunch from behind him. He winced, staring out the window, noting the metal bars on the outside of it, pretending to be curly decorative items, like that gate. He frowned, a little disgusted by the thought of that, as the crunching changed into panting and whimpering noises. He moved over to a chest of drawers and opened it; completely neat, silk shirts in the bottom, folded as he did at home. John removed a black one, socks, underwear; then he went to the oak wardrobe and pulled out a pair of trousers.

He laid them on the bed, not looking at Sherlock; he moved back to staring at the drawings on the wall, waiting until Sherlock gave a soft cough to show he was ready. Sweat had slicked his hair to his face, and he looked, if possible, paler and more gaunt than normal. John stared at him, resisting the urge to hug him again; it was different, hugging an animal to hugging the ice-cold sociopath currently facing him. "Two days." he whispered, then rubbed his eyes. Sherlock remained silent, stiff, trying to hide the faint tremble. Then John made an almost dismissive gesture. "This is your house. Kitchen. You need water, food - and then a shower." Sherlock scowled but turned sharply on his heel, pretending he hadn't staggered, opening the door and out into the corridor, heading down toward a flight of stairs.

***P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K***

John watched as Sherlock picked up a glass, filled it with water, then began to gulp it. He grabbed the glass, glaring; "Sip it. You'll make yourself ill." Sherlock remained silent, scowled, but sipped it, quickly, but sipping it down; then he went in search through the huge and beautiful kitchen, with an island in the middle, outfitted in mahogany wood. He'd wanted a kitchen like this most of his life. He found jars, and the fridge; soon he placed a ham sandwich with sundried tomatoes in front of a reluctant Sherlock, who was perching on one of the tall stools. John was frankly astonished that no-one had intercepted them on their way down here, but he was expecting Mycroft's move any moment.

He watched Sherlock eat the food, almost nervously, as if he'd forgotten how to eat. Then he considered the unusual silence; why was Sherlock not deafening him with the events he'd been through - and yet… he watched the sandwich half be slowly placed down on the plate, a sip of water.. "Sherlock, are you okay?" he asked, and the steel eyes fixing on him looked a little nervous. He opened his mouth, as if about to speak, but then his eyes dropped. John couldn't help the alarm he was feeling, but squashed it, "Relax, it's fine. Eat your food, then try. I had a little trouble when I was in shock." he said, voice soft, and comforting. Angry shame flashed across Sherlock's face, but John didn't comment on it as the sandwich continued to be eaten, slowly.

He waited, in the silence; the food was eaten. He put the plates in the dishwasher, pointed out to him, which was mostly empty, so he left it. Then he looked at Sherlock, uncomfortable; "We should probably go back to your room." he said, and Sherlock didn't nod, just went to the door and opened it for John, waiting. The corridors were silent and empty. "You'll need to be able to talk to your brother." they walked for the stairs. The silence remained from the taller man and John was left to wonder exactly what had been done to him.

_Review please._


	7. Chapter 7

COLD FLESH - Chapter Seven

_ Hi guys! Sorry for the delay, university is busy - we're doing four shows at once, plus written work on top… thank you so much for the review, Joon Sanders _

When they reached the room, the door was open and Mycroft was sat on Sherlock's bed, looking up with a slight smirk. "Nice to be able to speak to you." he commented, that edge on his voice that meant danger. Sherlock scowled but said nothing, "Rather than wondering if you're going to bite my kneecaps." he smirked and Sherlock scowled harder, John wondering what was going to happen as his eyes flickered between the brothers and he logically kept his distance.

"Gas." his eyes widened as he heard the scratchy quality of Sherlock's voice; it was worse than when he'd been strangled, far worse. "They used gas, Mycroft." John could see Sherlock's throat working as he tried to soothe the way for more words. "Gas until I blacked out. I was still awake in here." he tapped his head, but he looked so angry, John wondered if he might change back, and braced himself to calm his friend down, silently and invisibly. Nothing happened, however; Mycroft got to his feet, standing right in front of his brother, staring at him with narrowed eyes. "Oh dear." he said, eventually, and smirked, then stepped around Sherlock, walking away still speaking, "Get some rest, Sherlock. John, I have a room set up for you."

John looked at Sherlock, who looked furious, then away, following Mycroft out of the room and down the corridor. The brother pushed open a door, gesturing at a huge guest room with a king-sized bed, all decked in creams and pale peaches. "If you need anything, just call a maid." he informed John, "I advise you to leave my brother to stew. I don't need a lizard running around here. Incidentally, you are a doctor - maybe you can consider the stress this has on his heart, hm?" he smirked and walked away, leaving John feeling almost cold, staring after the retreating man.

***P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K***

He laid in the bed, feeling uncomfortable; it was late, later than he'd ever realised. He was hungry; but nothing could make him move right now. His eyes flickered over the images on the wall, drawings he'd done himself with a sharpie… birds and cats and creatures he'd seen from his bedroom window, science experiments with symbols over his desk. He wondered vaguely what Mycroft had done with his science equipment, but wave after wave of apathy rolled over him, and his mind flickered back to times when he was younger, emotional issues… eyes flickered unwillingly to the framed photograph and he closed his eyes with a hiss of anger.

He kept his eyes closed, laying flat on his back between the pillows of the king-sized bed. All Sherlock's focus switched to his breathing, in and out, the way he'd learnt to sleep as a young teenager, escaping from emotions that resulting in being treated like a girl, or an idiot - shake it off, shake it out. Focus. In, out… he began to drift off. Maybe that was why he had so much trouble sleeping, then. He didn't count dragons, just focused, every sinew, every muscle and bone and particle, just relaxing, melting into the quilt… he properly slipped through the layers of sleep, but John wasn't the only one who had troubles with night-time horses.

***P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K***

Mycroft watched the camera; he'd arrived in the control room shortly after descending from his brother's bedroom. The guard gave him a simple report. After he'd left with John, Sherlock had stared at the door, gone to stare at the desk for a while, then crawled onto the bed, slumping and laying on his back. Then his eyes had closed as if he was asleep. Mycroft recognised the signs; he frowned as he stared at his little brother. "I'll check if he's taking medication." he murmured. "Stubborn child." with a sigh, Mycroft left, leaving the guard to watch, with strict orders that Mycroft must be informed immediately if Sherlock was to head for a bathroom.

***P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K***

John had stood in 'his' room for a while, taking in everything, slowly. It seemed this had always been a guest room; clean, but feeling slightly neglected. He moved to a window, staring out at the beautiful grounds and very expensive area. John didn't know what to do; he considered going back to Sherlock, but… it was obvious that Mycroft was threatening him, to him at least. Shaking his head, he moved over to the call bell, feeling incredibly stupid as he pulled it, then sat on the edge of his bed. A minute or two later there was a knock on the door, and he pulled it open to a maid stood there. "Hi, how can I help?" she asked, smiling, and John was shellshocked. This was so… strange.

"Hi, um, can I have a cup of tea and something to eat?" he asked. She nodded, "We can serve you in the dining room or up here if you'd like?"

"I'll come with you, thanks." she nodded at his smile and lead him out the room, as he tried to shake off his worries about his best friend.

_Thanks, review please! Reviews make me write!_


	8. Epilogue

COLD FLESH - Epilogue.

_We're drawing to a close here, ladies and gents, I hope you've enjoyed the ride. Yes, I know there's not been a huge amount of plot here, but I wanted to focus on ideas I had for Sherlock's childhood etc, and the relationship of his brother. This chapter is short but I hope you enjoy it._

They spent the night there; John woke up mid-morning, around tennish, and sat up. The night had been pleasant, despite his difficulty in sleeping in beds that weren't his own (it had been hell in Afghanistan.) The house was beautiful and peaceful, the bed comfortable, and now he was looking forward to a breakfast to match the splendour of the house.

He got it.

A maid came once he'd dressed, noticing that the clothes he'd left in a messy pile had been washed for him, and asked if he was ready for breakfast. He gave the affirmative, and asked if she knew if Sherlock was coming; she replied that "Master Holmes will be with you as soon as available, Doctor Watson." it was so strangely formal that he felt himself go very quiet. He was led into that room with the long table, and sat down. There was already cereal and fresh fruit available, and toast - she asked him if he'd like any hot food preparing but he declined. He was alone through two slices of toast with raspberry jam, then Mycroft appeared, dapper as ever, carrying a newspaper.

"John." he greeted him, with a smile, and John eyed him suspiciously as the man sat opposite him and asked the maid - who had appeared from nowhere - for a poached egg on toast. He then picked up an apple and took a bite, before focusing on his newspaper. In the silence John got himself some cornflakes. Everything here was high-end, and made him feel slightly uncomfortable. Posh jam felt wrong, somehow.

The poached egg arrived at the same time as Sherlock.

***P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K***

John saw his friend arrive after he heard him; looking up from his food at the clunk of a door, expecting just the maid, he saw his friend, half his hair stuck up on the left hand side, still with red marks where he'd slept. He looked tired, dark shadows under those steel eyes. "Morning." John commented, as Mycroft folded his paper, receiving the plate of food. He didn't acknowledge his brother, and was not acknowledged in return, as Sherlock took the seat next to John. "Eat something." John ordered immediately, shoving the toast rack and the small bowl of butter at him. Sherlock gave a non-committal noise rather like a "Ungh." noise. Mycroft wrinkled his nose as he began to cut into his egg and toast.

Sherlock rubbed his hand through his hair, half-evening it out a little. John looked at him, frowning, taking in his appearance. Grey joggers and an undone white shirt; bare feet, a little stubble. He looked ten years older - or rather, he looked his actual age. It was strange for John to see, used to seeing his friend so groomed. He stared at Sherlock until he realised and thinly buttered a piece of toast, pointedly biting it.

Returning to his cereal and taking a well-needed sip of the tea that had arrived so silently he'd never noticed. "So, brother." instant tension. Damnit, Mycroft. "Are you going to be more careful when you're slithering around?" he looked up and saw the glare that Mycroft was studiously ignoring from his younger brother.

"Of course, Mycroft." he bit the last part of the word out. "Next time I won't get caught." his voice was still scratchy enough for John to wince.

Mycroft wrinkled his nose and ate the rest of his food in awkward silence. "When can we go?" John asked, when Mycroft was almost finished, and got a raised eyebrow and a smug smirk in response. As ever.

"As soon as you want, Doctor Watson. I can arrange a car as soon as breakfast is finished. Sherlock, you should dress." Wordlessly, Sherlock dropped his half-eaten slice of toast and sloped out, looking like an oversized teenager. John frowned after him, then looked at Mycroft again, who was still smirking. He clicked the maid. "Arrange a car for my brother and his companion, please." he said.

***P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K***

Sherlock was staring out the window for most of the return journey. John looked at him when they were about halfway back. "Would you please stop moping?" he snapped at last, and Sherlock looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "I've known you long enough to understand, Sherlock. It's probably best not to fly for a while, with Mycroft on the warpath."

"Hmph."

"Obviously." John muttered, scowling.

***P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K***

"You're never going to listen to me, are you?" he watched Sherlock begin to take off his shirt as he pursued him up the stairs. Sherlock didn't respond, already transforming, tugging off his clothes as quickly as possible. John sighed, as his friend dived out the door. "You know what, forget it." he turned his back, listening to the crunches and cracks and feeling sick, turning back around when he heard a soft growl. The dragon looked at him, half-crouched, and he licked his lips. "Just be more careful. Please." he whispered. The dragon stared, those eyes so like Sherlock's but slit, then it blinked slowly and nodded it's head once before bounding three paces and taking off.

John moved to the edge and sighed, staring at the disappearing shape, thinking about what had happened. The maid had left; then Mycroft had looked at him. "Be careful, John." Mycroft had sounded utterly weary, so much so that John had been startled. "Please. I have a feeling there will be danger nights soon." John had swallowed, licking his dry lips, at that point, his warm buzz fading. "In more ways than you know, John. Far more ways." then he had left with his newspaper, leaving John to consider the friend he thought he understood so well, after all this…

Rubbing his eyes he headed back inside. Tonight, he had a new mission;

Sherlock _would _eat a proper meal tonight, at least.

_And there we go. Reviews, please __ even though it's finished, they mean a lot to me._

_ Also I need to know; I'm thinking of writing the Dragon!Lock version of The Reichenbach Fall. Yay or nay? Please say in the reviews. Thank you!_


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